


Ever Changing Complexities

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Series: Complications [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Vomiting, trans!Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:35:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6935299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras wakes up feeling wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever Changing Complexities

Enjolras wakes up feeling wrong.  
If you asked him he wouldn’t be able to tell you why or how, but something about him just isn’t… Normal isn’t the right word, but it’s too early and he feels too ill to give another, instead he rubs at his eyes and slaps at his alarm clock and ignores the fact that he has to actually get up sooner rather than later.  
He can’t remember the last time he woke up feeling ‘right’.  
He knows it’s not dysphoria. It doesn’t feel like that, the stab of discomfort at seeing himself in the mirror, seeing himself, and feeling completely flawed. Instead it’s more of a creeping feeling, deep down, that every inch of his being knows. His stomach certainly does. He rolls over onto his side, pulling his knees to his chest. It doesn’t work to stop the steadily rising nausea creeping up his throat. He presses his lips together.  
That’s another thing where he’s lost track of the days. How long has it been? He tries to recount, ignoring the way it makes his stomach churn, and squeezing his eyes shut instead. It’s been over a month, here and there. Nausea is a common feature, with a few days of actual sickness scattered in the weeks.  
There was the time he, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had gone for dinner, which he’d blamed on food poisoning, but they’d both tried bites of his after he’d told them how delicious it was. There was the day he’d spent most of his lunchbreak in the toilet, managing to just about battle through the rest of the day. Then only a couple of weeks ago he’d been forced to take the day off work, and miss a meeting as a prelude to a weekend of vomiting he’d blamed on a bug.  
He’ll book in to see Shashi he decides, it’s obviously not just a bug or food poisoning. Maybe an allergy, like Cosette had last year when she realised the reason she was getting ill was because she had a gluten allergy. For now he has to actually get up.  
He pushes himself up slowly, trying not to move too much as he does, pushing away the thought to focus on the meeting tomorrow. Combeferre’s got the charity event she’s organising and that should take up most of the meeting, because everyone seemed keen to help when she first mentioned it. That’ll take some of the pressure of him so he can relax, save the opening and summing up.  
Oh and he must remember to tell Grantaire he has to swap coffee days next week if he’s going to see the doctor.  
Thinking of Grantaire, even now, only serves to remind him of their night together. It still brings a smile to his lips, that and the friendship they’ve finally struck up after a year of knowing each other. He might make a suggestion of taking it further, to go on a proper date, even if it is after actually sleeping together. Was that really two months ago?  
He pauses with a frown, head suddenly spinning with a realisation, then has to quickly turn on his heel to run to the bathroom. He retches, trying to hold his hair back with his hand, but only succeeding in getting half.  
His brain keeps going over the numbers, over and over.  
Nearly two months since he slept with Grantaire.  
A month and a bit since he got ill.  
Over two months since his last period.  
He groans, leaning his head against the sink. It’s cold against clammy skin.  
He’d been happy when his periods stopped, thinking it meant the hormones were working. Now it seems to be suggesting something much more serious. But he can’t be pregnant. They’d been careful hadn’t they? Surely…  
Okay, he’ll be the first to admit his memories of the night are fuzzy at best. He remembers what happened, the important bits, it’s just the details. The look on Grantaire’s face as he kissed him, when he’d lost his shirt, things like that. Minor things.  
He groans again, knocking his head against the porcelain. Was he really that stupid?  
He needs to find out, sooner rather than later.  
He takes a few minutes, until he feels secure pushing himself up to brush his teeth and get dressed. He splashes his face with some water to make him feel a little more human, it doesn’t work, and calls up the office to apologise for being off work again.  
Then he takes a deep breath, decides he’s just about ready to face the coffee shop smells downstairs, though the thought of the cakes inside makes him gag as he passes by, pressing his nose to the inside of his elbow.  
He stands for what must be half an hour in the aisle of Boots, staring at boxes that promise varying out comes of the same answer, before an assistant takes pity on him.  
“Can I help you?” She asks. “Are you looking for something in particular?” He honestly doesn’t have a clue, but doesn’t know how to say as much. How to say any of this to be honest so he just blurts out.  
“A pregnancy test. For my girlfriend.” He lies, because he can’t face up to this quite yet.  
“Well we recommend you get a couple. Just to be sure. This brand are very popular.” She picks up a box to show him. He just nods wordlessly, feeling the complete lack of colour in his face, and she shoots him a sympathetic look. “I know it’s a scary time, I’ve been there. But it will all work out, honestly.” She picks up another couple of boxes. “How about we take a couple of different ones over to the counter?”  
“Yeah… I think that would be best.” He agrees shakily, following her over to the till to pay.  
The bag seems heavy to him, though he knows it’s not; and he realises, once he’s standing key in hand by his door that he hasn’t thought about what he’ll do if it’s positive. His forehead rests against the wood grain for a moment.  
Will he keep it? Can he even keep it? Could he face that? What about Grantaire?  
His stomach drops.  
Grantaire’s the furthest from a settling down family type. He’s never mentioned anything long term, let alone an interest in kids. Enjolras knows he wouldn’t abandon him but would he ever be happy?  
For a moment he feels like he might throw up again. He can’t think about that now, he might not even be pregnant…  
He thinks he knows, deep down, that he is.  
He opens up the door, looks in the bag, pauses, then decides he can’t do this and sits eating cereal out of the box painfully slowly until he feels nearly ready then sits there staring at the bag for another ten minutes.  
He’s going to have to do it eventually. Whatever the answer it’s not going to change if he sits here for a minute or a month he’ll just have less time to decide what to do next. He pushes himself up decisively, and heads for the bathroom in what might be a determined manner.  
The test sits on the counter as he paces, he knows the time is up, he obsessively checked his watch the entire time, but he can’t bring himself to look even after half an hour.  
Come on, he can deal with this after everything else he chides himself. Gingerly he picks it up. He breathes out deeply and looks down.  
A small cross stares back.  
He doesn’t actually believe it, of course, he checks and double checks the leaflet because a cross isn’t positive is it?  
He takes another.  
This time it’s two lines, showing up darker than the cross as if to mock him.  
He throws them both in the bin and decides to ignore it a while, leaves them both there and keeps his hands busy tidying up his lounge and checking all the dates on his food. Of course the fact keeps lurking there, at the back of his mind, forcing him back to the bathroom to take the final test at 3 o’clock, just in case the result might have magically changed by then. It turns up the same answer. All hopes of a false positive vanish. He feels more than a little like he’s going to faint, so sinks slowly onto the toilet seat, head in hands.  
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”  
The next few hours are spent in a daze. He decides around 8.30 that he’s actually hungry, then realises he has no idea what to eat when pregnant or if he’ll even keep anything down given this extra layer on top of his nausea. He opts for pasta, with peas to add something green but mostly just picks at it, the news repeating over again in the background, before he shoves it into the fridge half eaten. When he eventually gets to bed it’s not to sleep but to actually think about things he doesn’t want to, that he’s been avoiding all afternoon. He eventually drops off into a wakeful sleep, groaning into his pillow when his alarm wakes him only half an hour since he last dropped off.  
He debates not going into work, then decides with less time than he really needs to get ready that he needs something to distract himself and makes a mad dash to get dressed and grabs toast on the way out.  
The meeting is another thing entirely, he spends most of the day debating over it. Because going to the meeting means facing Grantaire. But not going means questions, questions he can’t face right now. The lady on the desk next to him leans across to ask if he needs some air, he shakes his head, but gets up five minutes later for some water, using the opportunity to calm himself a little. He eventually, on the tube ride home, decides he can’t miss it for fear of at least one of his friends coming round and finding him a bit of a wreck. He can go, listen to what’s said and join in as little as possible, save the essentials to reassure people he is in fact okay.  
He catches a glimpse of himself in the bar mirror when he arrives, just asking for a water, and stifles a groan. He looks half dead, nausea having crept back in over the second half of yesterday’s pasta dinner. He’s hardly surprised by the bags under his eyes but his face is pallid and grey. He tries to slap a bit of colour into his cheeks before the barman comes back. He’s not entirely convinced that it’s worked.  
Courfeyrac takes one look at him and offers to chair the meeting. Enjolras chuckles, and thanks him but says he’ll do it anyway. He wants some normality, so he stands up to introduce the topic, leaning on the table, before settling back to listen to Combeferre. She’s a good speaker, and it’s easy to listen to what she says and take it all in. He doesn’t have to concentrate too much to keep his thoughts from his situation, though halfway through he finds his eyes drifting to Grantaire. He’s sketching, which reassures him, lulls him. Well, until Grantaire glances up and catches his eye, he gets a smile, then a frown and Enjolras looks down at his hands. Of course he noticed, just like he had before. He’d thought most of his friends were perceptive, especially ‘Ferre, but Grantaire might just win out on noticing the little tiny things.  
He can’t face him. He knows that right away, but Grantaire will want to talk, he’ll worry. He might call, ask for a coffee and he can’t do that without having to avoid drinking coffee – that one he does know – and then he’ll have to think of some excuse as to why he’s not drinking what is renowned as his favourite beverage (‘Makes up half your blood stream’ Courfeyrac had teased once). He realises he’s done exactly what he was trying to avoid and pulls his attention back to Combeferre just in time for her to turn to him to wrap up. He does so, far more hurriedly and disjointed than he normally would, opening the floor to questions and allowing the group to begin making a few preliminary plans. He’s almost distracted by the time the meeting draws to a full close and people begin drifting off.  
He nabs Combeferre and Courfeyrac on the way out, because they provide as good an excuse as any. Too late he realises he’s left his bag in the back room, so he keeps them talking over the meeting until he’s sure Grantaire must have left with Feuilly and Bahorel and then keeps them 10 minutes more.  
“You’re not overworking yourself are you?” Combeferre asks, leaning against the wall. “You look exhausted.”  
“It’s just been a busy week at work, looking forward to having a lazy weekend.” Enjolras laughs to make it all a joke so she’ll drop it. She does, but the ploy doesn’t quite work, he can tell by the slightly raised eyebrow.  
“I need to go catch up with Jehan, are you two joining me?” Courfeyrac asks. Combeferre turns her gaze to him.  
“Sure, Enjolras?”  
“I left my bag, so I won’t.”  
“You’ll be okay?”  
“It’s not far to the tube. You go catch up with them.”  
They hug their goodbyes and the pair head off deep in a new conversation. Enjolras sighs, heading back into the pub. The smell of alcohol and the wave of heat forces him to swallow hard against the rising nausea. He reaches the backroom with his head down, exhaling steadily. Right, he thinks, looking up for a quick sweep of the room, bag, bag…  
Grantaire.  
Shit.  
He’s still here, large as life, with a fully packed bag and a look of doleful concern on his face that makes him look slightly like a lost puppy. Enjolras’s heart stammers and tightens.  
“You’re still here.” He blurts, then feels completely stupid for doing so. Grantaire only looks more awkward, nearly sheepish, as he pushes a hand through his hair.  
“Yeah… You seemed upset.”  
“I’m just tired. I’ve not been feeling great.” He adds as an addition, though he’s not sure why because it only opens him up to more questions. He searches for his bag, his escape route.  
“I noticed.” Wonderful, Enjolras presses his lips together, of course he did.  
“Is that all?” He keeps his voice level, disinterested as he scoops up his bag.  
“Are you avoiding me?” Grantaire asks suddenly, and Enjolras has to pause because of course it had been obvious but he’d tried to hold out some hope that Grantaire hadn’t noticed it was directed at him. “You’ve just acted weird all evening.”  
“I’m just not feeling very social.” He tries, as if it’s a reasonable excuse.  
“And yet Combeferre and Courfeyrac get a half an hour chat while you think I’m leaving.” Enjolras tries to think of an excuse, opening his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. He presses his lips back together. “So you were.” Grantaire sounds disappointed, sad. Enjolras moves to reassure him automatically, because he knows now that he’s hurt Grantaire in the past, knows how easily Grantaire seems to be settling into the pattern at only the slightest negativity.  
“It wasn’t personal…”  
“Of course it wasn’t.”  
“Grantaire for God’s sake I’m just a bit stressed and I couldn’t face up to talking to people today. I almost didn’t come but then that would look odd and-“ He very nearly says something, something he might regret. He stops, breathing hard, head swimming.  
“Do you want to talk? I’ve got better coffee this time-“ It’s such an innocent offer, but he’s so wound up he snaps.  
“Your coffee has done more than enough!” His knees won’t hold him anymore, so he falls back into the nearest chair and stares at the floor, anywhere but the hurt he knows will be on Grantaire’s face.  
“Now that was personal.” Grantaire murmurs, soft and caring. There’s a step forward. “Seriously what’s happened? What have I done?”  
“Nothing… Exactly…” He can’t say it, doesn’t want to say it but it’s just on the tip of his tongue. Grantaire pushes, just enough, just reassuring and caring enough.  
“Enjolras.”  
“I’m pregnant.” He says, far too suddenly. It slips out from between his lips, so unexpected that he actually frowns. It was easy, too easy, and he’s met with silence.  
“You’re uh…”  
“Yeah.” Because of course now he’s at a loss for words, now it’s too late.  
“But you’re…” Enjolras nearly laughs, air rushing out of his lungs, pushing a hand through his hair at how near ridiculous the statement is, and how normally he’d be happy that someone forgot that he doesn’t have a penis.  
“I still have a uterus Grantaire.”  
“And it’s…”  
“Of course it is.” He nearly snaps because he’s never been this stupid before and it almost stings that Grantaire would think for a moment he was, though the logical part of his brain reminds him that it’s likely a reasonable question. “I don’t generally make a habit of getting drunk and… Well.” Grantaire sits down heavily opposite him, and he can feel his eyes on him, uncertain and scared. The words had been worryingly easy to say but now he doesn’t even know where to start. So he states the obvious. “I’ve landed this on you.”  
“What are you going to do?” Grantaire says, quieter beneath Enjolras’s statement. But he catches it, and it sends his head reeling with all the thoughts he’s been trying to quell, to not even think about for more than 5 second intervals but that kept him up all of last night. And suddenly he feels like he can say it all, though he’s not sure what to say. When he thinks all he gets is a rush of ‘what can I do? What do I do?’ but when he finally opens his mouth everything pours out, things he hadn’t even thought of properly.  
“I don’t know. I don’t know! It’s all so unplanned and sudden I can’t even process- I mean it’s my baby and I have always wanted kids but I figured I adopt like other gay guys. And that thought makes me- But then I think of how much this is already getting me stressed out and how much everything is going to change. I mean I’m pregnant. People are going to know, and know that I’m- I don’t want to be a freak show… But then I’m back to the whole baby thing and how I feel like I want this just… I don’t know.” He finishes, because he has to somewhere or he won’t stop talking himself in circles. And besides, he feels like he might actually cry if he doesn’t stop. Across from him Grantaire looks away, processing, as he bites his thumbnail. He goes for the obvious question, and Enjolras can just about deal with that, because it’s about now, not the future where the decisions will have to be made.  
“I uh… When did you find out?”  
“Yesterday, when I finally got out of bed and realised that a month of nausea and throwing up wasn’t excusable anymore.”  
“You didn’t… Before..?” He continues carefully, and somehow it makes him relax a little, though his reply ends up more sarcastic than intended.  
“I’m on T Grantaire, my periods are supposed to stop.” Grantaire nods, lowering his hand.  
“Right of course. I’m just trying to figure out how-“  
“We were both overemotional, mistakes happen Grantaire.” He’s sharper than anticipated, so he sighs, and prepares himself for the next step. Reassuring Grantaire that honestly he has it under control. “You don’t actually have to be anything to do with this. I wasn’t even sure if I could tell you.” Grantaire’s head snaps up and he regrets the last statement. He looks suddenly so lucid, hurt in his eyes, and he speaks with such conviction that Enjolras might just feel like he has someone to work through this with, whatever happens.  
“Of course you could. I’m not going to just leave you to deal with this. It’s my baby too.”  
“Really?”  
“Whatever you end up deciding.” He pulls the inside of his lip between his teeth and bites the bullet, because it’s still such a big possibility.  
“Even if I..?”  
“It’s your choice, you have to make the decision that’s best for you.” A small smile tugs at the edges of his lips.  
“And if I did decide to keep it?”  
“I’ll be there for whatever you need.” He looks back down, running his hands over the rough wool of his jacket to ground himself properly.  
“I didn’t really take you as a kids guy.” He says quietly, and Grantaire tenses. He curses quietly, looking up with a look that he hopes tells him he didn’t mean it like that.  
“Doesn’t fit in with the image? Just ask Bahorel’s sisters, their kids love me.”  
“I’m sorry, there’s just so much I don’t know about you…”  
“You can learn.” At this he does manage to smile, but he doesn’t feel ready to let go of the grounding of his sleeves yet, like a child clinging on. It needs time, he needs time.  
“I’ve not even told Combeferre and Courfeyrac yet… I’ve not really processed properly. So could you not mention this to anyone, until I’ve figured everything and gotten everything sorted?”  
“No of course, that’s perfectly understandable. Though you may get a call from me tomorrow to do the freak out thing because usually Jehan would be getting an earful.” He’s feeling a lot better that someone else can be just as nervous as him, then he realises he hasn’t actually asked that yet in his fit of anxiety.  
“You’re really okay?”  
“I think so.” Grantaire reassures him. “In theory. I just need to process a little and there might be some ‘oh my god’ moments in that but… I think I am.” His hands come up to the table, thumbs moving over each other, Enjolras wants to hold them, to have someone there to ground him. “I do want to be involved though, I want to support you in either decision. Doctors’ visits, if you decided to abort I’ll be there too and if not then I’ll help with decorating and names or- Oh wow… Okay the uh slight freak out may come a little early…”  
He takes his chance, taking Grantaire’s hands in his own, so that they both have someone. Grantaire glances up, and he looks nervous, scared, and Enjolras can see him as a mirror image of himself. He needs to let him know it’s okay, they’re okay.  
“That’s okay. This is massive. I’m still freaking out and I’ve had a day to process it.”  
“You’re absolutely sure?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras can’t help but shake his head even though he is so utterly sure of this thing.  
“Believe me I took so many tests…”  
“What next?” It’s the obvious question, and Enjolras had been so caught up he hadn’t thought about what would happen next. He’s uncertain in himself.  
“I guess I go to the doctor… If you’d like to come?”  
“No I would. I really would. I’m just taking it in.” Enjolras nods, with a small smile. He’s entirely unsure of where to go from here, what does he say? He feels he probably should have let go of Grantaire’s hands, but he can’t bring himself to until a while later when Grantaire asks if he could nip out for a cigarette break.  
“I didn’t realise you still smoked…”  
“I don’t but, well… Nervous habits really do die hard. I won’t be long.”  
“That’s fine.” He’s left with his own thoughts, how this might work, if it even will work. Only this week he’d been thinking of speaking to Combeferre and Courfeyrac about possibly asking Grantaire on a date, but now he’s carrying his child and he’s not sure how you work with that. He’s not convinced about even having a baby yet, with the amount it’s already freaked him out, but he’s so glad he told Grantaire, even if he hadn’t been sure he could. He supposes all that’s left is to make a decision. His stomach swims again, and he swallows, trying to hold back the butterflies.  
“Hey…” Grantaire squeezes his shoulder as he gets back, smelling of smoke, and oddly it settles his stomach. “Landlord’s closing up so I think we should head off before we get locked in.” Enjolras frowns.  
“Is it that late?”  
“Mhmm, we got quite caught up.” Grantaire shoots him a smile, holding out a hand for Enjolras to pull himself up, hauling his bag over his shoulder. He’s not quite ready to leave yet, but he can’t think of any other way to stay any longer, or to get Grantaire to stay with him. He glances round to him when they get outside.  
“I’ll try and get an appointment in the next few days. So I’ll text you?”  
“For that and anything else you need.”  
“Well I highly doubt you want to hold my hair back but thank you for the offer.” He smiles wryly, debating hugging him, but he’s not sure if it’s his place. Grantaire’s brow furrows in concern.  
“Is it that bad?”  
“Well, it varies but it can be.” He shrugs one shoulder slightly.  
“Then text.” Grantaire smiles, and reaches out to squeeze his hand. “I got you into this so I want to be able to support you too.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Do you want me to walk you home?” Enjolras debates it a moment, watching him. He wants to, wants the idle chatter to take his mind off things but he also knows if that happens then Grantaire won’t go home and he doesn’t want anything to happen.  
“It’s okay, I’ll be fine. My stomach’s a bit better tonight.” Grantaire nods with a small smile, withdrawing.  
“Then I guess I’ll text you or something?”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I was going to post some post-Complications things but then... I decided that this bit was more complete than the next big hopefully a-few-part story sooo... You get this one :)


End file.
